Off to the Races
by Tsar Bomba
Summary: His grin is a snarl when he looks to her. "Light of my life, fire of my loins. Be a good baby, do what I want." He snaps leather fingers and she is his, a swatch of ivory silk twisted to his will. And she loves it. Desmond Lockheart/Lone Wanderer. 1/12.


I was listening to Off to the Races by Lana Del Rey and thought "good god this is terribly arousing/filthy/hot/darkly delicious and I immediately thought of Desmond. I can't help how my mind works. It came out a bit darker/rambly-er/longer than planned, but that's alright. This is a good time-killer if you want some light reading xD

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><p>Her man, he's a bad man. Using the young and the stupid to run his errands, risk their lives, lose their sanity all for him.<p>

He's a bad man, but she can't deny the way he holds her black heart in his iron grip. The way he only allows her room to breathe smoky breaths.

He doesn't mind her Wasteland past and he doesn't mind her Vaultie class.

Undeniably, Desmond loves her with every beat of his blackened, twisted barbed wire heart.

He looks at her with yellow eyes, his face reflected in the glimmering gunmetal gray of her own, reflected in the glimmering ripples of the Point Lookout sea.

He looks at her as she walks the jagged beach, high heels hooked in long fingers and a rifle over her shoulders as she stares down at the sand. Blood-stained and decades-old sundress fluttering in the hazy wind.

Chipped and murky wine glass held in his hands the way he'd hold a feather, the leather fingers wrapped around the smooth surface the same way he wraps them around her long white neck.

She knows he could suffocate her, strangle her, and she revels in this knowledge. "Light of my life," he growls, carelessly leaning back on the couch. "Fire of my loins. Be a good baby, do what I want."

And she does. Without question. Not that he would ever ask much of her. Not anymore. After all, she truly was his light and fire.

Desmond knows that she stays here because she could never go back to the Capital. After what he had seen from her, no doubt those savages wouldn't even wait for her to step off the boat before tearing her apart.

No doubt she had burned her bridges over there.

No doubt she had killed the wrong bastard.

No doubt this is why she had fled to the foggy coasts and the black marshes.

No doubt she was crazy, ruined in the mind, born insane.

He would never question this though. For he was the only one who could keep his spitfire in line.

He was the only one she listened to.

She had needed a savior. A devil and a demon and an angel to shove a gun in her face and tell her to pull her shit together. Desmond did this and she became his, no questions asked and no answers needed.

She sings in the garden, spinning around the statues and laughing at the thorns. Her man was a tough man, in mind and body, and he put on airs of carelessness, but she knew that his soul is as sweet as blood-red jam.

That under the hardened leather of his grimace, he loves every inch of her tar black and desolate soul.

His wild-child and his blood-thirsty demon. His raging fire held at his fingertips, tamed like the flames of a cigar.

He grins and tells her that her insanity is what makes her so attractive.

He tells her that when she spoke to him the first time, mouth full of white teeth and words like daggers, he did not know whether to shoot her or stab her.

"Kissing wasn't an option?"

"Clearly, I would have done that first."

She laughs and the sound is from another era. The laugh of a woman with no cares and no worries.

The laugh of a woman who doesn't care about the savages who want to kill her or the horrors prowling the tall grass.

He kisses her laughing mouth.

Only she would laugh at a death-threat and think nothing of it. There was a dark and grim beauty in this, he thought.

He watches her sway through the mansion, watches her dress and undress in the ancient and moth-eaten clothes of his family. Watches her continue to sing even as she crouches, aiming down the sights, firing at a seagull. Just because, she tells him.

Red lips and red silk. Playing absentmindedly with the knife in her hand, spinning it between her fingers. Desmond doesn't know if she ignores the blood that falls from her fingers or if she can't feel it.

"Keep me forever," she mutters, still watching the blade. "Tell me you own me, baby."

No doubt, she couldn't feel the little cuts than ran like lace over her hands.

Desmond doesn't know if one day he'll wake up with that knife in his chest and her staring at him. Saying just because.

Yet this doesn't bother him. He can't tell if he ignores the fear or if he can't feel it. He can only control her so much.

The hard leather arm around her waist is tight and she leans closer into him, carelessly lounging on the bed and twisted in the sheets. She grins at him shamelessly. "I'm sorry I'm misbehaving."

His hell-raiser, curled into him and still grinning. No doubt he was just as crazy as she was if he loved her this much.

No doubt she'd stay with him to the bitter end. No doubt Desmond is the only one who could put up with her the way he does.

She'd be unbearable, uncontrollable, unfurled without his iron hand gripping her black heart. No wonder she'd been chased out of D.C.

They would rue the day she was alone without him.

Life of leisure, life of luxury, lying forever in this endless mansion with the peeling paper and the scorched walls. A king and queen among the mindless. They're playing god.

"We can do anything. We can be anything. We are everything."

No doubt, she was right.

A cigar dangles from his lips, embers blazing and smoke rising, and she says he's never looked more beautiful. Her white throat his bruised and her dark eyes bright with something he can't name, and he says the same to her.

True loves, through savage life and gruesome death. To the Ninth Circle of Hell and beyond to eternity. Two flaming souls burning bright.


End file.
